


News Cycles

by junes_discotheque



Series: kill your addiction [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Daddy Kink, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Oral Sex, Prostitution, QPQVerse, Sexual Assault, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 08:30:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6366925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junes_discotheque/pseuds/junes_discotheque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jefferson unwinds after his scandals break. Please mind the tags and warnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	News Cycles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rillrill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Quid Pro Quo](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5880157) by [rillrill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/pseuds/rillrill). 



> This, as the other fics in this series, take place in the Quid Pro Quo universe.
> 
> It also takes place in the same universe and on the same timeline as the [Nightstalker](http://archiveofourown.org/series/414184) series and runs about concurrent with _How to orchestrate an 18 car pileup_.
> 
> Pretty major trigger warnings for this part.

Jefferson is over his lap again.

His long legs are splayed awkwardly, half on the bed and half off, and he’s squirming in Eric’s loose grip. Eric’s hand falls rhythmically, smacking a deep red color into Jefferson’s dark skin, and it should be  _ nice.  _ He should be fucking  _ loving  _ this shit, like he did the first time, knocking the arrogant asshole down several pegs. And on some level, of course he does. 

It’s just.

The scandal broke that morning, a convoluted mess of financial fraud, shady business deals, sexual harassment, more financial fraud, sexual  _ assault,  _ and even more financial fraud. Eric considers himself fairly decent in matters of financial bullshit--he’d been going for an MBA at CUNY when he discovered he was way more suited to a career as a very expensive hooker--and his current line of work brings him into contact with a rather large number of people who are way, way too eager to try to impress him with  _ fascinating  _ stories about the amazing deal they just made with a couple naive junior congressmen.

So the financial shit is, honestly, unsurprising and relatively par for the course.

(Another thing he’s been doing since fucking politicians--goddamn motherfucking golf metaphors.)

He doesn’t care about that shit. Only difference between Jefferson and any of his other clients is that Jefferson got caught. Eric’s fucked guys involved in way bigger schemes; he’s fucked despots and murderers; he once had a guy admit to getting HIV from a street hooker and likely transmitting it to his  _ wife,  _ who probably still doesn’t know. He’s fucked some  _ assholes. _

But there was one story, right in the middle of the shit avalanche.

Sally Hemings.

He’d managed about five paragraphs of her story before he had to close out of  _ Nightstalker  _ and watched a few Vines of Jefferson and Madison fleeing their offices post-resignation to increasingly hilarious music. It only sort of…

Well.

Sally’s the reason he went out and bought the best digital audio recorder he could find, and she’s the reason the recorder is currently in his laptop bag. He’s not really sure what he expects to get, or how it can help her, but… He’s known people. Not  _ exactly  _ like her, but you work in the sex trade long enough, you hear stories. You meet people. Sometimes you can help. Most of the time you can’t. He’s aware all the recording’s probably going to do is pile onto the shitshow and might, if he’s stupid and actually  _ talks,  _ just ruin his own career.

Jefferson arches his back, pressing his cock into Eric’s lap, and whines out “ _ Dad-dyyy _ ” in his nasally southern drawl. Eric can hear the tears in his voice. A few days ago, he almost  _ loved  _ that sound. Now, it makes him want to vomit.

He’s holding Jefferson the absolute bare minimum needed to keep the man from falling off his lap. He strikes him with quick, sharp strokes, and doesn’t pause to rub the sting out. He doesn’t talk, either, not trusting himself to stay in character. He does growl, whenever Jefferson tries to squirm away from the spanking, but that’s about all he manages. The swats are probably distracting enough that Jefferson doesn’t notice Eric is silent.

(Eric hasn’t actually said a word since walking through the door. Hasn’t really needed to, since Jefferson had apparently been psyching himself up and blurted out his desire immediately.)

Jefferson starts crying shortly after.

Eric strikes him harder, faster, a whirlwind at almost full strength,  _ this isn’t even close to being less than you deserve,  _ wonders how many girls cried underneath him. There’s a justification for everything in Eric’s line of work, pretty lies he tells himself so he can live with himself after sucking off a monster. He won’t use any of them here. Even the audio recorder in his bag isn’t enough.

-

Jefferson gets off, eventually, while Eric stares off into space and tries to ignore his own involvement in this entire situation. At least, he thinks, he had the foresight to lay a towel over his lap. He really doesn’t want to burn these jeans.

He flops back on the bed and stares at the ceiling after Jefferson flees into the bathroom. He should leave; he  _ wants  _ to leave. He doesn’t want to spend another second longer than necessary in Jefferson’s presence. Should take the recording to  _ Nightstalker  _ or someone,  _ here’s Thomas Jefferson begging a gay prostitute to spank him,  _ wash his hands of the whole thing and maybe leave D.C. entirely. 

Running away is something he’s always been good at. Re-invention’s not nearly as hard as it looks.

He doesn’t run, though; doesn’t leave, doesn’t even get up. Just lies there, on the bed, and wonders if the tape is enough, or if he should wait for Jefferson to get done with his breakdown and see if has anything else to say.

(Also, Eric hasn’t been paid yet. He’d been shown the money beforehand, and then Jefferson stuck it back in his pocket, and he took his pants with him to the bathroom. Eric’s tempted to leave anyway, call it a freebie, just so he doesn’t have to be in the same building with Jefferson any longer than necessary. But he also has bills, and anyway it’ll sound better on tape if he actually gets the part where cash changes hands.)

Eventually, the door opens. Jefferson steps out, looking messy as fuck, his eyes bright red and his hair limp around his face. He sniffles a little and leans against the doorjamb.

Eric sits up. Jefferson startles at the noise.

“What the fuck are you still doing here?”

“You haven’t paid me,” Eric says, and mentally kicks himself--he should’ve been more diplomatic, say some shit about  _ wanting  _ to be there, for  _ Jefferson,  _ but the words feel like acid in the back of his mouth.

Sure enough, Jefferson snarls. “ _ Paid you _ ,” he says. “That’s all you fucking want from me. You been watching the news?” There’s no good answer to that. Eric shrugs. “You gonna turn on me too?”

Eric shakes his head. “No, no, man, I’m not--”

“You’re a goddamn liar. You’re--fuck, this must be  _ great  _ for you. Can’t wait to tell the nearest reporter about this, can you?”

“I’m not in the business of talking about my clients.”

Jefferson stalks over to him in three long strides. “Stand up. Stand the  _ fuck _ up. Jesus--” And then his fist is flying, colliding with Eric’s face, and Eric’s on the floor. 

He’s been roughed up by clients before.

He can handle this.

-

Eric’s eyes are watering. His left eye, where Jefferson punched him, is throbbing and leaking and he can’t seem to stop it. He can still see out of his right eye, but everything’s out of focus, and he isn’t sure--

There’s pressure on his chest. Jefferson’s straddling him.

His dick is out.

“Stop fucking crying,” he says. “Open your fucking mouth.”

-

A solid decade of regularly sucking dick has pretty much killed Eric’s gag reflex.

He gags anyway.

-

The money flutters down from Jefferson’s fist as he zips himself, grinning. He leaves shortly after, and Eric wonders if he’s bleeding--if he’ll ever get the taste of Jefferson out of his mouth--if the tape got anything good. He’s pretty sure Jefferson was talking while he fucked him, but for the life of him he can’t recall one word.

He rolls over on his stomach and picks himself off the floor, cramming the money into his pocket, and sort of stumbles into the bathroom. There’s a towel crumpled on the floor. His stomach turns.

Eric examines himself in the mirror. His face is red and starting to bruise; his eye is swollen and will swell more; when he spits in the sink there’s blood. There’s blood on his teeth, too, and he scoops some water from the faucet to wash his mouth. 

It just strengthens the taste of semen on his tongue.

He retches into the sink.

-

The Aviators don’t do much to hide the bruising down the entire left side of Eric’s face, but they hide the nasty swelling and burst blood vessels, and well. Good enough.

He orders an iced hazelnut coffee while he waits, spinning the flash drive with the recording on the wire table. He can still walk away, he knows, wash his hands of all of this and let the other dozen and a half scandals bury Jefferson. It’d be easier.

Eric hates that walking away makes him feel as sick as it does.

Empathy and guilt are a fucking bitch.

“Hey, glad you changed your mind.”

Eric looks up. The  _ Nightstalker  _ reporter’s in jeans, a white T-shirt, and a black blazer, apparently trying to look as nondescript as possible. Eric--jeans and a gray Henley--appreciates the discretion. It’s unlikely anyone will recognize him, but for his own peace of mind, and for appeasing his paranoia, he’d rather not be seen blatantly speaking to a reporter.

_ Especially  _ a reporter from the blog that broke the Virginia scandal. And  _ most especially  _ Kitty Fisher.

“I didn’t,” Eric says. “I still don’t want to--to talk to anyone. No quotes, no pictures, call me an anonymous source.”

“Okay,” Kitty says, and then frowns, noticing the bruising on Eric’s face. “Did he--”

Eric tilts his Aviators down slightly, for just a second, then slides them back up his nose as Kitty looks nauseous. “It’s not a safety thing, if that’s what you’re wondering. I just--I have a good business going. Ratting out my clients, even  _ this  _ client, does me no favors. And you can probably understand I don’t particularly feel like being dragged through the cable news mudbath.”

She nods, and smiles, though really it’s more of a grimace. Eric wonders if bringing up her own connection to a political sex scandal was manipulative. He finds he doesn’t really care. “So I’m guessing you’re not pressing charges, either.”

“Occupational hazard,” Eric says. His voice doesn’t waver. “Nothing to be done. But--” he holds up the drive-- “I got it on tape. The first half should be good for some schadenfreude and general amusement. The second half…” He pauses, struggling to find the words.  _ The second half of the tape.  _ “I don’t know if Sally Hemings is planning to press charges or sue or anything, but whatever she decides, it might help her. Establish a pattern of behavior, or whatever.”

Kitty looks sick. Eric takes several long gulps of his coffee, in hopes that the caffeine will ease his shaking.

“Anyway,” he continues, not wanting to stay on the topic of--to stay on this topic for any longer than necessary. “I won’t be seeing him again, so this the only tape you’re going to get.”

“Of course,” Kitty says quickly, clearly disturbed by the idea that anyone would ask him to go back. “This is--Thank you.” She takes the drive and tucks it into her purse. “If you change your mind about talking--”

“I have your card.”

She nods. “Right. Well.” She stands up awkwardly, pushes her chair in. It scrapes along the concrete patio. Eric winces at the noise. Kitty gives him another odd, apologetic look, before vanishing into the pre-lunch-rush foot traffic.

-

It takes three hours for the story to go up.

Eric spends all of them on the treadmill in the rec center near his apartment, tapping ‘refresh’ on his phone and watching the subtitles on the TVs turned to CNN, MSNBC and Fox News while listening to the audio of the TV turned to ESPN at the far end of the row.

When  _ Nightstalker  _ finally posts, he turns down the speed on his treadmill.

It’s another ten minutes before CNN mentions it.

Then another five before MSNBC’s  _ Breaking News  _ graphic flashes on the screen.

Fox takes another fifteen minutes.

-

“Such a shame, isn’t it?”

A middle-aged woman on the Elliptical next to him shakes her head. 

“He was such a promising senator, too. You know this financial stuff blows over, and that girl--well, people lie. But they’re saying they have a tape and it’s damning. Don’t think there’s any way back from that.”

“Excuse me,” Eric says. Turns off his treadmill. Walks to the bathroom on shaking legs.

Just barely makes it before the iced hazelnut coffee comes back up.

-

He calls Kitty in the morning.


End file.
